


What Custom Strictly Divided

by Ashfae



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Classical Music, Feelings, Fluff, Footnotes, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Letters, M/M, Other, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 10:29:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20406244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashfae/pseuds/Ashfae
Summary: Crowley stretched his long legs over the arm of the couch, crossing his feet at the ankles. All things considered, he liked feet. You could do so many useful things with them. Wear high heels, for one. Run very fast. Both at the same time if you were particularly talented, or if you cheated. People took feet for granted.Of course, most people had never experienced alternatives, but that was their own problem.* * *Crowley and Aziraphale after the UnApocalypse, trying to figure out what to do with themselves now that the world has astonishingly failed to end.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go to Fyre for pre-reading and reckless enablement. ;)
> 
> This fic is entirely the fault of a particular piece of fanart, which I will link to at the end.
> 
> **Edit**: The fic now also has its own fanart, WHEEE, which will be embedded at the pertinent part of the story. =)

Crowley stretched his long legs over the arm of the couch, crossing his feet at the ankles. All things considered, he liked feet. You could do so many useful things with them. Wear high heels, for one. Run very fast. Both at the same time if you were particularly talented, or if you cheated. People took feet for granted. 

Of course, most people had never experienced alternatives, but that was their own problem.

Crowley happily re-crossed his feet, looking at them with distinct satisfaction. They'd done good work over the past several days. Taken him to the Ritz with Aziraphale--along with Aziraphale's own feet, of course, great that the Antichrist had returned those--where they'd all remained for several hours and several courses and not nearly enough bottles of wine, a thing which Crowley and Aziraphale had rectified by wandering on all the aforementioned feet back to Aziraphale's bookshop. Fortunately, the angel's wine cellar had been restored along with all the books. Crowley had half-expected the bottles to be filled with some ghastly fizzy soda or Ribena or worse, but no, the wine all seemed to be in order. They'd checked, of course. Had to, really, just to make sure everything was labelled correctly.

Which meant that all in all Crowley's feet had not led him _out_ of Aziraphale's bookshop just yet, despite neither of them being quite sure how long they'd been there. There wasn't any need to rush, which after the past eleven years was a welcome and unexpected state of affairs. Aziraphale seemed just as content as Crowley was with the present state of things, which involved both of them being just the right amount of drunk while he sat comfortably in an armchair and Crowley took up all the couch space and admired his own feet.

Bloody well done, those feet. He'd have to reward them somehow, assuming he ever moved again, which didn't seem likely. Probably the two of them would stop sitting here and drinking, but eventually. 

It was so, so good to have an 'eventually' to look forward to. Crowley could lie there for years just thinking about 'eventually'. 

The thought sparked another thought, and he suddenly found himself interrupting a conversation about Italian grapes by saying, "Was that really the best you could come up with?"

"Hmm?" Aziraphale returned inattentively, swallowing another sip of wine. "Was what the best I could come up with?"

"At the airbase."

Aziraphale's attention was caught. He frowned, trying to remember. Crowley could almost hear the moment when it clicked: _Come up with something! Or--or I'll never talk to you again!_ "Well, I--" He swallowed, shifted his shoulders, shrugged a little. "Had to say _something_."

Crowley snorted, amused. "I mean, there you are, holding a flaming sword in one hand, Satan himself on his way, and you decide to threaten me with--" His voice dropped, for extra dramatic emphasis. "_Never speaking to me again._"

"It seemed to motivate you enough," Aziraphale said primly. 

Crowley arched a brow so high that it nearly fell off his face entirely. "Yes, it was definitely that threat which motivated me, and not the impending destruction of everything including us." He grinned and turned his head so he was looking back up at the ceiling. It was one of the least interesting ceilings he'd ever viewed, but he was perfectly willing to stare at it for a while all the same. 

Aziraphale flushed a little but let this pass, sighing and putting his wineglass down on the table. "I suppose we really ought to think about what happens next."

"Next?" Crowley repeated vaguely.

"Well, yes. I mean, we don't have jobs anymore, I don't think." Aziraphale tapped on the arm of his chair. Crowley didn't even have to look at him to know the expression Aziraphale would be wearing, he knew them all. Just now the angel would be pursing his lips and looking faintly reluctant but willing to submit to necessity, just as soon as he could determine what necessity demanded of him.

"Oh, that." Crowley stretched his arms up for a minute, working out the kinks. There were more kinks than arms should probably have. "I was thinking. The Almighty made the world in seven days, right?"

"Of course that's what it _says_, but you know as well as I do that it took rather longer--"

Crowley waved a hand dismissively in the air above his head. "Metaphorically, angel, metaphorical days. Worked for six days, rested on the seventh, Sabbath as the day of rest, all of that."

"True, though most people don't pay attention to that part these days--"

"The _point_\--" Crowley insisted, seizing control of the conversation before Aziraphale could haul it off on multiple tangents. "The point is, world's been around for six thousand years now, yeah? So I figure, one thousand years per day. We've worked for six thousand years, and now we get to have a thousand years of rest."

"Oh." Aziraphale considered this in silence for a moment, settling back in his chair and weaving his fingers together on his lap as he thought. "There is a certain logic to that, isn't there," He said, sounding pleased by the prospect. "And it does sound nice. Perhaps not a thousand years, but a short holiday, at least."

"Don't tell me we haven't earned one." Crowley decided the ceiling had run out of appeal and sat up, swinging his lanky legs back around and down. He slapped his hand lightly on the table between them. "So come on, angel, what do you want to do? Anything you like. Go to Paris for _crepes suzette_? Check out the how the Aurora Borealis is doing lately? Hop over to Australia and rile up all the emus?"[1]

Aziraphale gave him a _Look_. Crowley nearly chortled with delight at the sight of it. "That's much more your sort of thing than mine, and you know it," he said reprovingly. He reached for the bottle (a truly excellent 2013 Amarone, aged in cherry wood) and refilled both their glasses with unconscious grace.[2] "No, something more restful, I think, at least to start with. The theatre, perhaps? How long is it since we went to a play?"

"Ages." These days Crowley enjoyed the cinema at least as much as theatre--humans, so _inventive_, it was marvellous, especially surround sound technology--but getting Aziraphale into one took serious effort and a promise of either Marlene Dietrich or Judy Garland. _The Wizard of Oz_, that had been fun. Maybe they could arrange for it to show on a big screen somewhere.[3] "What are you in the mood for? I won't do Hamlet again, I'm telling you right now, but I'll give old Will a go if you pick one of the comedies."

"_Much Ado About Nothing_ would be nice. Or a concert!" Aziraphale brightened further. "Oh, that would be just lovely, I haven't gone to the symphony in _so_ long, and gramophone records just aren't the same. Neither are your _compact discman_ things, before you suggest them. We could go hear some Mozart, that would be appropriate. 'Bathed in a glitter that could have come only from the 18th century, from that age of light, lightness, and enlightenment...over it all hovers the greater spirit that is Mozart’s: the spirit of compassion, of universal love, even of suffering...a spirit that knows no age, that belongs to all ages--'[4]

"Beethoven," Crowley said abruptly, interrupting the quotation. "The Ninth. That's what we should do."

There was a long moment of silence. Crowley looked at his wineglass and turned it gently in his hands, watching the dark red liquid swirl, aware that Aziraphale was staring at him. 

"You hate the Ninth," Aziraphale said, after a long pause, suddenly sounding much more sober. "Every time it's played, you snap your fingers and change the music to something else. Usually some dreadful bebop thing."

"I keep telling you, it's only bebop if it's--nevermind." Crowley drained his wineglass. "And I don't hate the Ninth. I just don't listen to it. Usually."

There was another long pause, in which Crowley looked at nothing and Aziraphale looked at Crowley. "Why not, my dear? Or rather, why now?"

Crowley shuffled his feet. Another thing feet were good for, shuffling. Couldn't shuffle without them. "Just seems appropriate, 's all." He refilled his glass, still very definitely not looking at Aziraphale. "We don't have to. Mozart's fine. He was a card, one of the most absolutely obscene humans I have _ever_ come across, which is really saying something. Did you ever hear his 'Leck Mich Im Arsch' [5] before they cleaned it up? To say nothing of those filthy letters to his cousin--"

"I would very much enjoy hearing Beethoven with you, Crowley," Aziraphale said, with that utterly penetrating and disarming sincerity that Crowley had never found how to defend himself against, despite six millennia of exposure. "It sounds perfect."

There was another long moment of silence, and Crowley abruptly decided he and his feet had had enough and stood up. "Great, then...that's a plan. I'll find a performance of it, got to be one somewhere, usually is, humans can't get enough of Beethoven. I should head back to the flat for now, though. Check up on my plants. Don't even want to think about how sloppy they'll have gotten during the past few days."

"Of course, if that's what you want." Aziraphale got to his feet too, a little more steadily. "Do remember to sober up before you drive back. You're a menace on the roads when you're sober, let alone when you're smashed."

Crowley waved a hand, still not meeting Aziraphale's questioning gaze. He knew what that expression would look like, too: thoughtful, appraising, and far, far too astute for Crowley's good. Or his bad. Or his anything. "I'll give you a call in a day or two, in that case, after we've both had time to make certain everything's back as it should be. Aside from your wine collection, pretty sure we've sorted that one."

"I could use a day or two to catalogue my new books," Aziraphale said gently. "I'll be here when you want me, my dear."

Crowley looked up and met the angel's eyes briefly before he covered his own with his sunglasses. "...Good to know." He cocked his head to the side, summoning his usual insouciant grin. "Thanks for the meal. Next one's on me."

"I will look forward to that very much," said the angel, unquestionably meaning it.

Crowley and his feet slinked out of the bookshop and back to Mayfair, feeling Aziraphale's eyes on them the whole way.

  


* * *

  


1. The Great Emu War of Australia was one of Crowley's favorites of all the myriad wars the humans had ever instigated, with or without his help. He hadn't done much as part of it, just organized an inconvenient rainstorm at a particular moment, but the results has been glorious enough to make him laugh whenever he remembered them.↩

2. The grace was unavoidable. Angel, divine being, all that.↩

3. Crowley was aware of the Dark Side of the Rainbow thing. He'd spend two solid days trying to start film and album at the exact right moment for it to work, then given it up as a diabolical trick that he really wished he'd thought of himself.↩

4. As said by Leonard Bernstein, whose company Aziraphale had greatly enjoyed, so much so that after Leonard's death he had even sold one of his precious books to raise funds to donate to the man's philanthropic efforts. Aziraphale felt it a pity that Bernstein hadn't seen their success during his own lifetime, but and made sure to keep an eye on them whenever he could spare one. It wasn't difficult. He had a lot of eyes.↩

5. This translates exactly as you think it does.↩


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few more days passed, and they settled back into a routine not unlike what they'd had before Armageddon had been set into motion eleven years ago, before everything had changed irrevocably. Which it had. It had, and Aziraphale was deeply, fundamentally aware of it, knew Crowley was as conscious of the change. This period felt less like a return to business as normal and more taking a breath before some further action.
> 
> * * *
> 
> A concert, an explanation, and a letter.

A few days passed. Aziraphale spent them quietly. He did catalogue his new books, then spent a pleasant night rereading _The Odyssey_ in the original Greek, simply for the enjoyment of it. Of course it wasn't the same as hearing the poem recited properly, according to the oral tradition--such an ear for cadence Homer had!--but it was still enjoyable. In the morning he went out for pastries, then walked to a park and sat on a bench, feeding pigeons and watching the world go by.

Such a good world, all things considered. He was so very, very relieved it was still here and he was still part of it.

In the afternoon he telephoned Crowley, feeling a slight thrill as he did so. Usually it was Crowley who called him, being so much more familiar with telephones and all that, but Aziraphale wanted to suggest dinner at _lovely_ little restaurant he'd found a while ago that did simply scrumptious Thai food. 

He did, and they did. Crowley was unusually quiet at first, but soon unwound, especially once he started giving scathing comments on how badly behaved all the plants surrounding them were [1] and they could happily bicker about whether he _really_ needed to abuse his plants the way he did [2], and conversation moved on from there into everything and nothing, as it tended to do.

It was such a pleasure to sit there and talk about nothing in particular, solely for the enjoyment of it, without any fear of whether or not anyone was watching. No more deception. No more sides.

A few more days passed, and they settled back into a routine not unlike what they'd had before Armageddon had been set into motion eleven years ago, before everything had changed irrevocably. Which it had. It had, and Aziraphale was deeply, fundamentally aware of it, knew Crowley was as conscious of the change. This period felt less like a return to business as normal and more taking a breath before some further action. They met for a meal every day at least once, usually the lingering sort of excursion that turned into drinks or a walk or both. That was new; they'd gotten into the habit of meeting semi-regularly during the twentieth century, once telephones were around and it was so very easy to contact each other, but it'd never been as constant a thing, not with Heaven and Hell on the watch. Aziraphale still sometimes found old instincts rising, old habits of caution or self-restraint. Learning to ignore them was an exercise in muscle-building, only without muscles involved. But both Heaven and Hell seemed willing to ignore them for now.

They discussed parts of what had happened now and then, though only some of the more peripheral bits. Some of it was still too near and too raw to bear examination just yet. And there was no rush. They could have the same unhurried conversations they'd both enjoyed for the whole of their long acquaintance, appreciating the world around them and its curiosities both new and old.

They didn't bring up Beethoven again until the day Crowley mentioned off-handedly that he'd gotten them a box for a performance at the Proms at the Royal Albert Hall, as convenient as either of them could have wished. They wouldn't even need to leave London. Aziraphale wondered if a Higher Power had a hand in it, but only to himself. After all, Beethoven's Ninth was performed nearly every year during the Proms, and he was almost sure coincidence was a real thing, even in a world created by the Almighty. Almost.

He reread _Paradise Lost_, and wondered more than ever what Milton had known, if anything. [4]

A few weeks after the world failed to end, Aziraphale dressed not in his usual suit but in something more formal. Not much more formal, as he was usually dressed formally for this day and age. But a bit more. Something a bit less scruffy and worn, to suit the occasion--because it felt like an occasion, though whether ending or beginning, he wasn't sure. Probably both. It was how endings and beginnings tended to be, in his long experience of viewing them. It was just unusual for _him_ to experience either, as opposed to simply observing them happening to others. It made him a little nervous, truthfully. But...fluttery. Excited. And very, very curious.

When Crowley rang the buzzer on the bookshop door--that was odd, lately he'd just been walking in, a change which Aziraphale had pointedly not objected to in the least--Aziraphale was ready and waiting, and opened the door with a beaming smile. His eyes widened. So did Crowley's, though the demon also whistled. "Look at you, angel. Dressing up for the occasion?"

"It seemed appropriate," Aziraphale said primly, tugging on his waistcoat. Still a waistcoat and jacket, still cream-coloured over a pale blue shirt, but with a few extra surreptitious touches of gold here and there. A top hat, the one he'd had in the 19th century, the material giving a faintly feathered impression and the ribbon a warm gold-brown, and cream gloves to match. _And_ a tartan cravat streaked with shimmering blue and gold and red, because no matter what Crowley said, some things never went out of style, and besides he liked it.

Crowley did raise an eyebrow at the tartan, but refrained from commenting aside from a quirk of the mouth that spoke volumes. Aziraphale glared at him as he stepped out and waved an absent hand to lock the bookshop and douse all the lights, but then relented. "You look rather spiffing yourself." Very modern, but very Crowley, bits and pieces stolen from here and there and turned into something unique. A high-collared shirt and red tie under a tight-fitting jacket with a feminine cut, sharp black lines and subtle hints of red licking the edges. Not unlike what Aziraphale was wearing in its individual components, while still being wholly different.

Crowley shrugged. "Seemed appropriate. Like you said, it's been a while since we went to a concert. When was the last one?" 

"Oh, I don't know...thirty years, perhaps? The young cellist who did such brilliant things with Paganini--"

And they were off, wandering down to the Bentley. Aziraphale was almost as delighted as Crowley that the Bentley had been restored so completely, not that he'd admitted it except to disclaim the fact five minutes later when Crowley set off at inhuman speeds [6] down roads absolutely not meant to be used for such quick purposes. Dinner first, of course, sushi and sake, though not too much of the latter, it wouldn't do to be drunk for an evening like this. Just enough to be pleasant. All told, things had been remarkably pleasant for the past few weeks. Aziraphale was still getting used to it. He wasn't sure if Crowley was used to it at all yet--but then, _pleasant_ wasn't exactly Crowley's comfort zone. Or hadn't been. Things were changing, after all.

It was only after dinner, once they arrived at the venue and climbed the steps to enter the magnificence of the Hall, that Aziraphale approached the subject they'd been avoiding for so many days. At least, one of the subjects. "Did you ever meet Beethoven?" 

Crowley shrugged, taking the steps two at a time, but slowly, so Aziraphale could keep up. "Once or twice, yeah, in his younger days. Only briefly. Went to a few concerts of his. I'd been hopping around Europe doing this and that, found myself in Vienna for a few months and thought I'd take a gander at the piano virtuoso everyone was talking about."

Aziraphale tilted his head a little, encouraging him to continue as they walked through the halls to the upper levels. "And you thought...?" 

"That he was dramatic as hell!" Crowley grinned suddenly. "Mozart was a genius, of course, the little bastard, but his work is so..." He waved his hands in the air, waggling his fingers. "Precise. All precise and tinkly, like crystal. Lovely stuff, technically perfect, never a note out of place and Someone help you if you miss even one, but..." He shrugged again. "Always felt a little lacking to me, aside from Don Giovanni. But Beethoven, he really went for the gut. Had to like that about him." He opened the door to their box and gestured absently for Aziraphale to enter first. "One of the grumpiest bastards I ever met, but _fuck_, he could play, he could find emotions you never knew you had and just wrench them out of you. Even early on he was like that, and from all I've heard just got worse as he grew older. So to speak."

Aziraphale held out Crowley's seat for him. There were places for five, but it would only be the two of them. Not the best in the house, that was reserved for the Queen, but they would have privacy and a lovely view. Perfect. He smiled as he took his own seat. "You didn't know him in later years, then?"

"Nah, too busy. Had to run around Europe for ages dealing with Napoleon and his ego, and then there was that ridiculous Regency period--you remember that, you were there--"

"I certainly was." Aziraphale had enjoyed the Regency period, though the literature that had resulted from it was rather more amusing than the real thing had been. He had a full set of first editions of the works of Georgette Heyer.

"--yeah, anyway, after all that I was so exhausted I fell into bed and slept for a couple decades." 

"So you missed out on all the later pieces. As they were done, I mean."

"Yeah." Crowley was silent. Aziraphale waited, the picture of encouraging patience, and Crowley eventually gave in and elaborated further. "Not all of them. I made it to the opening night of the Ninth."

"I see." Crowley's face was shuttered, even without taking into account the sunglasses he still wore, and Aziraphale sometimes knew when not to press his luck. He took a conversational step backwards. "I missed the Ninth, but was fortunate enough to attend the opening of the Fifth and Sixth, the Fate and Pastoral. Both on the same night, did you know?"

"Seems odd they debuted both at once," Crowley said, relaxing a smidge and slouching back on his chair, sliding down a few inches. Aziraphale smiled encouragingly. "You've got the Fifth, with all its fantastic Fate Banging on the Door, Voice of Doom, Ask Not For Whom the Bell Tolls It Tolls For Thee sound to it, and then you've got the Sixth which is the musical equivalent of lambs gamboling on a flowery hillside. Talk about your balance of opposing forces." Aziraphale's mouth quirked with amusement, just a little, but Crowley didn't seem to notice. "Must've been a good concert, though. Wish I'd been there."

"I wish you had too, my dear."

Crowley shot him a sideways glance, eyebrow raised over his dark glasses, as Aziraphale picked up their drinks menu. "So...what'd you think, then?"

"Of Beethoven, or the concert?" Crowley made a noncommittal noise, and Aziraphale considered his answer. "I think you were being tactful when you described him as 'grumpy.' Though he was so very unhappy, poor man. And the concert was..." He hesitated, but said it. "Divine."

Crowley's breath hitched suddenly. "...yeah. Yeah, it would have been."

It was perhaps fortunate that at that moment there was a courteous knock on the door and someone entered to ask if they wished to order any drinks or nibbles for now or the interval. Which Aziraphale did, and after a moment Crowley recovered enough to do the same, and conversation passed back into easier territory until the lights dimmed.

The first half of the concert was charming, a few of Beethoven's piano sonatas, well-performed and entirely enjoyable. All the same, Aziraphale was conscious of a certain tension, most of it centered about a foot to his left. 

He made no comment, and made a point of maintaining easy camaraderie during the interval. They shared a toast--to the world, as was now becoming traditional with them, and also to music in general, and Aziraphale didn't point out his companion's obvious discomfort or distraction. He hadn't existed in the world for six thousand years without learning there were some times when you just had to be patient and wait for answers.

Then the lights dimmed again, and the second half of the concert began. Crowley drew in a deep breath. Aziraphale's eyes flickered to him, but Crowley's gaze was already locked on the stage.

The first movement, tense and unquestionably powerful, but with a clarity belying the sometimes ominous speed. Like an oncoming storm. Aziraphale remembered standing on the wall around Eden with Crowley, unconsciously lifting his wing to shelter the demon from the first rain and then bewilderedly realizing he'd done it and wondering if it was a good idea before deciding to just get on with things. Neither of them had been willing to leave until Adam and Eve were completely out of sight. _Oh brave new world, that has such people in it...!_

Aziraphale leaned back in his chair, enjoying every note and the memories they evoked. First movement eventually turned into the second. Crowley took his glasses off and leaned forward, crossing his long arms on the edge of the box and resting his chin on them. It made his back look even longer than it usually did, and not for the first time Aziraphale wondered if, when Crowley was issued with a body, he was given a few extra vertebrae by accident. But the violin strings were dancing happily through their fugal forms and the scherzo claimed his attention again, if not quite so fully as it had Crowley's. It finished with its abrupt triumph and the symphony moved into the slower third movement, formal and grand. Aziraphale closed his eyes and let it wash over him. 

And then the fourth, the Ode to Joy. Aziraphale brightened a little with happy anticipation. Impossible not to love the exuberant magnificence of the Ninth...the melody began so gently at first, passed through the various instrumental sections, growing and reaching its glorious fullness. It was abruptly interrupted by a lone bass voice who summoned all the assembled singers, the choir, the orchestra, the audience, all of humanity to join him.

_Joy, beautiful spark of Divinity, daughter of Elysium...Heavenly being, we enter your sanctuary, intoxicated with fire..._

Aziraphale sighed happily. Impossible, impossible not to love that call for unification, for rejoicing...Crowley was right, this was an entirely fitting way to celebrate the miraculous survival of all things. 

_Your magic binds again what custom strictly divided, all people become brothers where your gentle wing abides!_

Aziraphale looked over the enraptured audience. That was the wonder of music, part of why he loved it so. All these people listening, brought together here and, if only for now, wholly united. There was nothing in Heaven to match this swelling of joy, no glory so great. Blasphemous to think--but he was free to think as he wished now, and he couldn't imagine God would disapprove of his conclusion. Surely even the Almighty Herself loved moments like this. Surely She found great joy in Her creation as well, and this manifestation of it. It was a pity the hosts of Heaven were so lofty they overlooked the miracles humankind itself was capable of. But Heaven was so much more isolated than it realized, and worse off for it. It'd taken so long for Aziraphale to see, much too long.

_He who has the good fortune to find a true friend..._

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley with a fond smile, which faded into utter astonishment.

_...let him join in our rejoicing! _

Crowley was weeping. His gaze was still fixed unblinking on the musicians, but silent tears shone on his face in the reduced light from the stage, glimmering like fire.

_Yea, if there is but one other soul he can call his on the whole earth..._

It shouldn't have been possible. Surely not. Could demons weep? It was an interesting philosophical question that Aziraphale had somehow never wondered about, now rendered moot by the fact of it happening. For all Crowley's compassion--and he had it, Aziraphale had known that for centuries, no matter what the demon claimed or how he protested--for all his compassion and his hatred of injustice, Aziraphale had never seen Crowley weep. Not from rage or grief, not for anything, not even during the 14th century. Not until now.

Aziraphale stared transfixed, so full of emotion that it was almost painful. Slowly, with infinite caution, he reached over and rested a hand on his companion's knee.

_All creatures drink joy at Nature's breasts, good and evil alike follow in her trail of roses._

Crowley jerked upright, unfolding his arms in order to look down at the incongruous sight, then stared at Aziraphale. His golden eyes were wide and unguarded, wet with tears. Aziraphale looked at him, and did not move his hand.

_She gave us kisses, and the vine, and a friend faithful to death; even the serpent was given desire, and the cherub stands before God!_

Just as slowly Crowley placed his hand on top of Aziraphale's. Aziraphale turned his hand in that grasp, folded their fingers together. Crowley shuddered and took a deep breath, and his mouth opened as if to speak...then he closed it again and turned back at the stage. But his fingers clenched around Aziraphale's as though they were a lifeline.

_Receive this embrace, you millions--this kiss is for the whole world!_

Aziraphale held on just as hard, and listened, and felt himself unfold into a widespread stillness and peace and certainty.

_World, do you sense your Creator? Seek Him above the starry canopy! Above stars must He dwell._

They remained sitting in silence as the piece wound to its close and the hall erupted into thunderous applause. Normally Aziraphale would have joined in with enthusiasm, but applauding would mean releasing Crowley's hand. Crowley kept staring at the conductor and orchestra as they took their bows, and only when they left the stage entirely and the house lights rose did he jerk his hand free, scrubbing at his eyes and face with an oddly defensive movement and putting his glasses back on. "We should get out of here," he said, and if his voice was a little more choked than usual Aziraphale chose not to comment on it. "You know how they get, people will be hanging around for ages trying to catch a glimpse of other people. No point in going somewhere fancy unless other humans see you doing it and get pictures." 

"Of course, my dear," Aziraphale agreed, standing. He would have rather liked to offer Crowley his arm, but for all Crowley's apparent nonchalance Aziraphale could see the tension in those shoulders turning inwards, the way his head tilted towards the ground instead of the world around them. Another time, perhaps. "Shall we?" 

Crowley just rose, sticking his hands in his pockets and sauntering towards the door in his usual insouciant manner. Aziraphale smiled to himself and followed.

The crowds did press, but somehow there was always a space for them to move through, like the parting of the Red Sea but more elegant and less dramatic. [7] Crowley breathed relief as they stepped outside and the cooler air hit their faces, crisp with autumn. Aziraphale looked at him and turned in a particular direction. "Shall we walk through Hyde Park for a while?" he suggested. "It's always lovely at this time of year."

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him--lovely or not, they wouldn't be seeing much of the park at this time of night, even without being limited by human eyesight--but shrugged and followed along. 

It was lovely, even in the dark. Autumn breezes blew clear and clean in their faces, without the smog that had plagued London in the past. There were still traces of pollution, yes, impossible to miss compared to the air that had washed over the Earth in the beginning, without hint of taint. But it was better, things were getting better, and could be better still. Aziraphale believed it entirely, and smiled up at the night sky. _You knew what You were doing all along, didn't you?_ The thought was fond. _Forgive me my doubts._

"It's because of how defiant it is," Crowley said out of nowhere, immediately recapturing Aziraphale's full attention. "The Ninth."

"Defiant?" Aziraphale prompted. The demon kicked absently at a pebble, knocking it off the pavement onto the grass. 

"Yeah. Everyone talks about the universal brotherhood and peace themes, that stuff, but it's defiant. Powerful and dynamic, and he put in a choir where choirs had no business being according to the rules of the day, but that's the least of it. It's..." Crowley's fingers twitched as he tried to find words. "So _damned_ jubilant, daring anyone to take it to task for its rejoicing. Humans praising the Almighty, but also themselves, nature, the world itself...all the things that make them _them_. Clever, rebellious humans giving themselves credit. First time I heard it, I thought--"

His jaw clamped shut. Aziraphale, then prompted again, even more quietly. "You thought?"

For a long time there was only the sound of their feet on the pavement, the breeze moving the tree branches, more distant sounds of city traffic. 

"That I had definitely done the right thing all those years ago, tempting Eve to take that apple." Crowley's voice was so low it was hard to hear, even for angelic ears. "And that I was glad I'd done it. Not because it was my job, or a chance to show Her what I thought of Her orders, or any of that, but just...for its own sake. Because it led to all of this." He let out a long breath, looking around them at shadowed trees, the moonlight reflecting on the river near the path. "I'd never liked the idea of the world ending, you know that. Sounded awfully boring when you got down to it, even if we'd won. Victory over Heaven, and then what? Sitting around congratulating ourselves forever, and all the humans left as nothing but collateral damage or a way of keeping score, their punishment for _curiosity_..." 

He bit off the word as though it were a personal insult, then shrugged. "That was when I decided I didn't want it to happen. Didn't have any blessed clue how to stop it, mind, but knew that I'd have to think of something to stymie it when the time came around. Hopefully with your help."

"The holy water," Aziraphale breathed, stopping dead in his tracks at the realization. "You asked me for it just a few decades later."

Crowley stopped walking too, stuck his hands in his pockets and looked up at the sky. "Yeah, well. Knew if I was really going to be setting myself against the Great Plan I'd better have a few tricks up my sleeve, and the more unexpected the better. There was never going to be any chance of talking Hell out of the vengeance they'd been wanting since forever just because I liked humans, so sooner or later they'd be after me." 

"Oh, my dear..." Aziraphale's voice shook a little. "So you don't listen to the Ninth, because it--"

"Ehhh, that was before," Crowley interrupted, waving a hand. "Don't imagine I'll have trouble with it now. No more world-ending, right? We fixed it. Glad to have heard it again properly though, in concert, not some half-arsed recording that can't capture it. Feels like coming full circle. Though it's not quite the same without the man himself and his wild hair, hopping around on stage directing dynamics he can't hear except inside his head."

They walked in silence for several minutes, listening to the world.

"About Beethoven," Aziraphale said finally. His heart beat as thunderously as applause in his chest, but he sounded calm. "Did you by any chance ever read his letters?"

Crowley groaned. "Angel, you _know_ I'm not the bookish sort--"

"Yes, my dear, I do know, but still, you might find them...illuminating."

"Illuminating?" 

"Yes." Aziraphale took a breath, looking up at the sky where the stars shone. "Do you remember earlier this evening, how, how you described Beethoven as grumpy, and I said that he was so very unhappy? He'd had a, a lover, you see. For a time." Oh, curse his stuttering, always happening when something was important. "No one actually knows who she was for certain, it's a great mystery. He never addresses her by name, only by various endearments, the most famous of which is Immortal Beloved."

Crowley snorted. "Is it, now. Bit of irony there." 

Quiet, indifferent tones, but Aziraphale had known his friend for a long time, and knew how to hear undercurrents. He smiled all at once, glancing briefly at Crowley. "Yes, a little. Still, it's all very romantic. Not your sort of thing at all, I know, but knowing more about that relationship might help you understand why he composed as he did."

There's a moment of silence. Crowley shuffled his feet. "Yeah, well...pop a book of them along sometime and I daresay I can have a look. When I have time."

"I can do better than that." Aziraphale looked back up at the sky and closed his eyes, shuffling through his memory. "'My angel, my all, my own self--'" 

Crowley drew in a sharp breath. Aziraphale continued as though he hadn't heard. "'What abominable waste of time in such things--why this deep grief, where necessity speaks? Can our love persist otherwise than through sacrifices, than by not demanding everything? Canst thou change it, that thou are not entirely mine, I not entirely thine? Oh, God, look into beautiful Nature and compose your mind to the inevitable. Love demands everything and is quite right, so it is for me with you, for you with me--only you forget so easily, that I must live for you and for me--were we quite united, you would notice this painful feeling as little as I should--'"

"Angel," Crowley whispered, his voice almost anguished. Aziraphale looked at him: a tall, dark figure standing just outside the shadows from the trees, moonlight reflecting off the sunglasses he wore even now. A figure as known to Aziraphale as his own reflection, and that which lay within better known yet.

Aziraphale stepped closer, lifting a hand and touching Crowley's cheek where it had been stained by tears of fire earlier in the evening. Crowley swayed minutely into the caress. 

With infinite care, Aziraphale removed Crowley's sunglasses, revealing eyes that were wide and golden, and intensely fixed on him. The demon's expression was as vulnerable as the one he'd worn earlier during the concert. "'Is it not a real building of Heaven, our Love--but as firm, too, as the citadel of Heaven?'" Aziraphale continued softly. "'At my actual age I should need some continuity, sameness of life--can that exist under our circumstances?...Oh, go on loving me--never doubt the faithfullest heart of your beloved. Ever thine. Ever mine. Ever _ours._'"

"_Aziraphale._" Quieter yet, and this time with a faint note of some desperate protest or denial in it, underwritten by yearning.

Aziraphale smiled. Leaning up just a little on his toes he kissed Crowley's cheek, tasted the trail where tears had run, the smoke and salt of them. Crowley twitched, his breath catching in his throat. Such a light, simple kiss, almost inconsequential in comparison to the words he'd just uttered--but with a profound weight to it, for being the first.

Aziraphale stepped back, and reached down to take Crowley's hand. "Come, my dear," he said softly. "Let's go home."

Crowley stood statue-still, snake-still, for a few moments longer, staring at their joined hands. Then he very slowly lifted them to his mouth, and with closed eyes brushed his lips across the entwined fingers, a gesture that to Aziraphale seemed as eloquent and reverent as any word ever put to page, any note set to music. 

The starry canopy shone above them as they walked through the park, hand in hand, heading homewards.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/ashfae/49449004163/in/dateposted-public/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] One of the frangipani plants showed signs of fungus on the undersides of its leaves, which Crowley considered to be _exceptionally_ poor manners on its part.
> 
> [2] "Obviously. Otherwise they might get ideas above their station and arrange a revolution."  
"A _coup de trillium_?"  
"There's a whole level of Hell just for people who make puns like that, you know." [3]
> 
> [3] A place which is most assuredly going to be this author's ultimate destination, as anyone who has met her can vouch.
> 
> [4] Aziraphale owned several copies of _Paradise Lost_, including a largely unknown very early edition with a number of pecularities to the text. The speeches by Beelzebub contained large quantities of the letter 'z' inserted apparently at random, a thing attributed to the printsetter's apprentice having worked several late nights in a row. Also of note were a few extra lines in the section wherein the foremost minions of Lucifer were described. Quite personal insults were inserted into many of these descriptions, though interestingly the section on Astoreth ended with the lines "...fell/To idols foul. Still, she is good comp'ny/Unless some total git doth tell her/She needs must smile more often to please him/In which case they're right fucked and you should sit/And watch the show." After which it continued on normally again. [5]
> 
> [5] It appears these verses were inserted during the proof stage, but upon being questioned who might have had opportunity to tamper with them, the same aforementioned printer's assistant could only describe a thin, redheaded woman with a wicked smile and impossible hip movements. As this lady was known to be an acquaintance of the extremely courteous Mr. A. Ziraphale, who owned the bookshop down the road and who the printer was desperate not to annoy as Mr. Ziraphale was so very helpful with translations and well-timed cups of tea, the matter was not followed up on. 
> 
> [6] The inhumanity was unavoidable. Demon, infernal, all that.
> 
> [7] And significantly less wet.
> 
> * * *
> 
> This fic owes much to many. First and absolutely above all to Neddea, whose [post on tumblr about Crowley and Beethoven](https://neddea.tumblr.com/post/186271295533/more-ineffable-husbands-because-theyre-soft-and) caught my fancy, particularly the picture of him at the opening of the Ninth, which lodged in my head and would. Not. Leave. Thank you for the wonderful, wonderful art and headcanon, Neddea. It's been haunting me for a month but was worth it.
> 
> Credit must also be given to my favorite performance of Beethoven's Ninth, which can be legally viewed for free on youtube [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rOjHhS5MtvA). I took my translation partly from that performance's subtitles, and partly from the [the wikipedia page on Schiller's 'Ode to Joy' poem](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ode_to_Joy), plus a liberty of my own in translating Wurm as Serpent instead of the more usual Worm (which I justify because it fits, not just for my story but as a foil to Cherub). Translation of the Immortal Beloved letters taken from [here](http://www.lettersofnote.com/2011/06/immortal-beloved.html). Yes, I left out a lot of lines in both the Ode to Joy and the letter, or this story would've been even more long and meandering. Or blame Aziraphale for editing the letter to suit his purpose; he picked and chose the lines that seemed most relevant to the pair of them.
> 
> Thanks also to Fyre for a quick beta and a ton of encouragement and frequent buttkicking so I actually got this thing done, and for much, much, much mutual obsessive fantalk.
> 
> And finally thanks to mywingsareonwheels for their last minute rescue of footnote number 4. ;) And also for even more mutual obsessive fantalk, since apparently I cannot get enough of it.
> 
> **Edit**: Thanks now also to [cogitaeworks](https://cogitaeworks.tumblr.com/) for the unspeakably _beautiful_ artwork, which is everything I wanted and more. <3 <3 <3 <3
> 
> You can find me [on tumblr](http://ashfae.tumblr.com) if you like. =)


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